


Purpose

by metisket



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen, baseball metaphors gone wild, leveling up, papamoto is the best papa, the vindice are a pain in the ass, this mafia game is serious stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metisket/pseuds/metisket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Takeshi seems to spend a lot of time on the ground at Squalo’s feet, bleeding. His life is kind of messed up.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purpose

**Author's Note:**

> First posted November 2010. Spoilers/accurate through Ch. 312, and based on this theory/hope I had that every single fight in the Inheritance arc would end in a draw. Every. Single. One. Then everyone would be snapped up by the Vindice, and ultimately it would all be down to Yamamoto. Who couldn't, at the time, walk.

By the time Takeshi wakes up, everyone’s gone.

Well, everyone except his dad, which is something. It might be nice if his dad could, you know, _not cry_ , but Takeshi gets that that’s asking too much of a dad. Considering.

Takeshi wakes up, and the first things he notices are pain, hospital, dad, doctor.

No Tsuna, no Gokudera. No family. “Where is everybody?”

That’s when his dad bursts into tears. It’s not like him. Really not like him. Takeshi knows the outline of what he’ll be told before the doctor even starts talking.

The doctor says it’s good Takeshi’s awake, outlook promising, stuff like that. And then, “But I’m sorry to have to tell you...”

* * *

Every time Takeshi’s good at something, it seems like people line up to tell him he was _born to do it_. Born to baseball. Born to the sword. Born to murder.

It’s funny, but kind of nice, too. Nice to have things you were born to do. Comforting to have more than one—he remembers how shaky the ground was when all he had was baseball.

The thing is, he’s not like Gokudera—his brain isn’t much use to anybody. Everything he was _born to do_ is based on his ability to walk. Which apparently he doesn’t have anymore. So what happens when all your reasons to live get taken away from you and there’s nobody around to give you new ones?

Yeah, what happens then?

He can’t even make it to the top of a roof to throw himself off.

* * *

By the time Takeshi starts physical therapy, the entire tenth generation of the Vongola family is in a Vindice prison, keeping the Shimon family company.

All of Shimon, that is, except Kaoru, which is why Takeshi’s got around-the-clock guards. Dino, Tsuna’s dad, Bianchi. Always watching. They wouldn’t let him get to a rooftop even if he could.

He’s doing well in physical therapy. Everyone is impressed. He waits for someone to tell him he was born to rehabilitation, but no one does. He’s not sure what he’d do if someone said that. Laugh, scream, cry.

No. He’d probably just smile. That’s pretty much all he ever does anymore: he obeys instructions, and he smiles. He’s worrying his dad, he knows, but this is all he can do right now.

Smile. Train. Do not think. And never, never listen to what they say when they think you’re asleep.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Bianchi, I know he’s tough, but he can’t _walk_ —”

“He’s still not as much of a disaster as you are, Chiavarone. He’ll do it.”

“Or die trying. Where’s Reborn? Is this his crazy idea?”

“Reborn’s at the prison.”

“They jailed Reborn!?”

“He’s _at_ the prison, not _in_ the prison. God, shut up, it hurts me to watch you try to think. The kid will be fine, and this is the best way—Hayato can handle a few months in jail. Better that than having the Vindice hound us forever. The kid just needs time. He’ll get my brother back for me.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll get my brother back myself. Fuck the Vindice.”

“Holy _shit_ , you—”

“Shut it, Chiavarone. You’ll wake him up.”

Takeshi breathes evenly and slowly, a careful imitation of drugged sleep. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t let himself listen.

* * *

By the time Squalo shows up, the Tenth and his guardians (minus Yamamoto Takeshi) have been in prison for two months.

Squalo should know better than anyone that Takeshi’s not a swordsman anymore. A real swordsman would’ve had the courage to end it. Takeshi knows he could end it if he really, honestly wanted to—it’s not like he _needs_ a roof. But he hasn’t. He’s kept on living, for some reason.

Which means he’s no swordsman; he’s just a kid who can’t walk. But Squalo shows up anyway. It makes no sense.

“I didn’t think you’d bother to come all this way,” Takeshi says. He smiles, for lack of anything better to do.

Squalo stares at him.

“Do you…want food or something? Tea? Hey, I’m getting pretty good in the kitchen!”

“You stupid brat,” Squalo growls. “What the shit is this? They said you were out of it, but I didn’t think I’d find you making fucking _daisy chains_.”

“Haha, well. Nobody was around when I woke up.” Because everyone but Squalo knows that daisy chains are all he’s good for.

Squalo looks like he’s trying to decide whether to be annoyed or confused. “They went to avenge you, or some dumbass thing.”

“Avenge me.” Takeshi doesn’t get angry very often. He thinks he might be angry now, though it’s been hard, lately, to pin down exactly what it is he’s feeling. “Huh. Just like I’m dead already.”

“Get a grip, kid.”

“Why are you here, Squalo? What do you want? I can’t fight, I can’t even _walk_. I’m useless, okay? My own _family_ knows I’m useless. Just kill me and get it over—”

Squalo backhands him so hard it knocks him right out of his chair. After a dazed second or two, Takeshi pushes up onto his elbows and spits blood, woozily glad he hasn’t lost any teeth this time. He thinks, _Crap, I hope that didn’t mess up my back_ more.

He seems to spend a lot of time on the ground at Squalo’s feet, bleeding. His life is kind of messed up.

“Maybe you are useless,” Squalo growls, looming over him. “But it’s not your fucking legs making you that way, it’s your pussy attitude. _Get up_.”

Squalo probably has less mercy than death. Takeshi tries to smile about it, but it’s tough with the split lip. “Actually,” he says, “my legs aren’t the problem. See, it’s my back—”

“Shut up and get on your wheels before I step on you like a worm.”

Takeshi looks up at the wheelchair. It seems pretty far away. It’s also, it occurs to him now he’s on the floor thinking about it, inclined to roll away at inconvenient moments unless the brake’s on (and it isn’t). He drags himself toward it anyway.

He hopes his dad doesn’t come home any time soon.

Climbing into the chair takes stability and balance. Timing. Strength. Strength, he quickly learns, is what he’s most lacking. He falls twice, and each time the chair rolls away, and he has to crawl after it. Squalo stands watching with his arms folded and emphatically does not help.

Takeshi doesn’t laugh. He knows that would just irritate Squalo.

The first time he falls, it’s embarrassing. The second time, it’s annoying. The third time, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters, not Squalo or the Vongola or how this looks or what it means that he can’t even do this much—Takeshi is _going_ to make it into that chair. Unalterable fact. He’ll do it if it kills him.

Possibly due to this attitude, the third time, he does make it. Barely. He’s worn out and gasping, but he’s done it. _I did it!_

A wave of accomplishment, drowned out by shame.

_…This is the best I can do now_.

“Okay, wheels,” Squalo says, unfolding his arms. “Looks like you aren’t totally worthless yet.”

Takeshi blinks at him. “What?”

“I’m saying you’re not a quitter, brat. The rest we can work with. Starting with your arms—what kind of pussy arms do you _have?_ Have you been lifting weights? What do these wuss doctors have you doing?”

“But…Squalo, I can’t walk.”

“So fucking what? You can still throw sharp things, can’t you? You can still _fly_. Get your head together and stop being a goddamn loser like your whiny bitch of a boss.”

“Hey, Tsuna’s a great guy!”

“Sure, whatever, doesn’t change that he’s a whiny bitch. Where’s your ring?”

“My…ring?”

“Yeah. Your ring. Seriously, kid, did your head get fucked up, too? Blood loss, oxygen deprivation, little brain damage? Spit it out now before I waste time on you.”

Takeshi laughs. “Would you know the difference?”

Squalo boots his chair impatiently, making it turn in a little half-circle. Takeshi shrugs and points to the desk. “Everybody says that’s my ring. It kind of looks like a rock, though.”

Squalo, more irritated than surprised, sneers at the rock thing that Dino and Bianchi swore up and down really was Takeshi’s ring. “You’ve gotta _awaken the rock’s soul_ ,” he says, making a lemon-biting face.

Takeshi’s proud of Squalo for not spitting on the ground at the end of that sentence the way he obviously wanted to. He’s still none the wiser about his rock, though. “What?”

“I didn’t decide this, asshole.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“Focus your will,” Squalo tells him. “Or some stupid shit like that.”

It takes a little more explaining—yelling—kicking Takeshi’s wheelchair around the room—but Squalo does eventually manage to get across what’s supposed to happen with the rock. Ring. Whatever.

Takeshi focuses his will, sort of the way he does when he uses a box weapon. Sort of like chair climbing attempt number three. It’s going to work because he says it is. It’s going to work because there’s no other option.

And, hey, bright lights! That’s fun.

Way more fun than the thing left over when the lights go away. Because actually, Takeshi liked his ring. He could wear it if he wanted, he could put it on a chain and hide it under his shirt if he wanted. It reminded him of Gokudera. A lot of nice things about it. This? This is a huge step down.

It’s a collar. With random metal things on it.

“Um,” Takeshi says, eyeing it dubiously. “What?”

Squalo’s doubled over with laughter. It doesn’t keep him from talking, though, which is too bad. “Really fucking _are_ Sawada’s dog!” he howls, like Takeshi couldn’t say exactly the same thing about him and Xanxus.

Takeshi looks at the collar again. It isn’t fair, he thinks. Shouldn’t Gokudera have gotten the collar?

Of course, for all he knows, Gokudera did get a collar. They may have matching collars. If they do, that could be cool. They can loom on either side of Tsuna in their collars and see if they can actually make him faint from embarrassment.

Poor Tsuna. But it’ll be _hilarious_.

If Gokudera doesn’t have a collar, though, Takeshi wants a do-over.

They don’t get much in the way of training done that day. What keeps happening is, Squalo has Takeshi call his box animals out of his collar or something, and then Takeshi spends the next half hour waiting for Squalo to stop rolling around on the floor laughing.

Not super-productive, but Takeshi’s not too bothered. In fact, he’s not upset at all. And it’s only now that he’s _not_ upset, angry, or miserable that he can tell he’s been all of those things for a while. Maybe since his dad started crying in the hospital. Or maybe…maybe since someone he’d thought was a friend tried to cut him in half. Weird how he’s only just noticing. Huh. _I was really_ furious _for a while, wasn’t I?_

He doesn’t know what he’s feeling at the moment, either, and he probably won’t know until it’s too late. That would figure. He’s not quite happy, but at least he’s got the will to do stuff.

Maybe it’s something like hope.

That night, for the first time in a long time (for the first time since his mother died), he cries, too. It makes no sense. He didn’t cry when he thought he had nothing, but now that he’s at risk of getting something back—he’s crying. And not gently, either. Great, racking sobs that tear at his throat and shake his whole body, like something’s trying to rip its way out of him.

He shoves his face into his pillow, grabs on tight with both hands, and hopes the sound is muffled enough that his dad doesn’t hear. He’s glad he doesn’t have any stitches left in, because this would definitely tear them out.

* * *

Takeshi eventually figures out that Squalo calls him _wheels_ when he’s pleased. He usually gets called _brat_ or _kid_ or _asshole_ ; _wheels_ is as close as Squalo comes to _good job_.

“You don’t suck as much as you did last week, wheels.” It’s tantamount to _I’m proud of you_.

Squalo’s right. Takeshi can still fly. Or float, zoom, whatever you want to call that thing he does with the flames. Anyway, it doesn’t use legs. Too bad you need your feet on the ground for a lot of Shigure Soen forms. And sword fighting in a wheelchair is just not going to happen, no matter how much of a demented coach Squalo is.

When he has more time, Takeshi’s going to have to come up with some new forms he won’t need the ground for.

In the meantime, Squalo’s teaching him all kinds of ways to maim people from far away, which is. Creepy. But Takeshi will use it if he has to. Turns out he’s pretty good at throwing knives, for one thing. It’s like pitching. Kind of. Of course, he was always a batter.

But he’s not useless, or at least, he’s nothing like as useless as he thought he was. Bianchi was right. Squalo was right. Takeshi and Dino really were being quitters.

Kind of embarrassing.

“You’re not a total failure with knives,” Squalo says. “And wheels are a hell of a lot faster than people think, so that’s in your favor. Plus your bullshit Vongola collar tricks. And we’ll get your tech freaks to do something cool with your chair—could stash a fuckin’ arsenal in there: knives, bombs, guns.”

“I don’t know how to shoot a gun,” Takeshi points out. He doesn’t want to know, either. For what that’s worth.

“I’ll teach you to shoot,” Reborn says quietly. Reborn showed up with Squalo today, no explanation, and now he’s perched on the back of Takeshi’s wheelchair. Taking a break, apparently, from whatever it is he’s been doing at the jail. “And I’ll catch you up on everything we know about the Shimon family’s abilities.”

If Squalo had offered to teach him, Takeshi would have refused. Reborn, though. Reborn’s always got reasons for what he does. Not just the surface reasons, but a bunch of creepy, twisty, complicated reasons all his own, too.

“I don’t want to learn to shoot,” Takeshi tries, just on the off-chance that Reborn didn’t know that.

“I know,” Reborn says. Takeshi nods. No way out, then.

“All that and guns,” Squalo says thoughtfully. “Build up a little more muscle, and you’ll be about as close to worthwhile as you ever were, wheels.”

“Haha, thanks. I’ll be able to do everything but baseball, huh? And walking, I guess.” Not as important as baseball.

Reborn’s giving him a strange look that makes Takeshi wonder what kind of weird expression is on _his_ face right now. Nothing good, apparently.

Squalo just rolls his eyes. “You can play baseball in a wheelchair, brat.”

“What? No, you can’t.”

“Yes you fucking can, asshole. They’ve got these chairs with the wheels tilted in to keep out of the way or whatever. Your doctors didn’t tell you this? The fuck are they good for?”

Takeshi hadn’t asked them. He wasn’t about to so much as say the word _baseball_ in front of people who wouldn’t understand. He hadn’t wanted to hear them say it was impossible.

His mistake. Another mistake. He’s making a lot of them lately.

It’s very odd that Squalo knows about wheelchair baseball. Of all people. “Next you’ll tell me I can use Shigure Soen in a wheelchair.”

Squalo laughs. “Yeah, sure. You can if you wanna die.”

“I’ll be back on Tuesday,” Reborn cuts in, hopping down, off to do whatever it is that Reborn does. “Try not to break any of his bones before then, Squalo.”

Squalo nods warily. He doesn’t know what to make of Reborn. But then, most people don’t. Not even Tsuna, not all the time.

Takeshi doesn’t get it. Reborn’s pretty easy to understand. Not the particulars, but, you know, in general. The general pattern of Reborn behavior—really predictable. Funny how people don’t seem to see it.

Reborn nods back at Squalo, smiles at Takeshi, and marches out of the room.

“Glad he’s on our side,” Squalo mutters, low enough that he probably didn’t mean for Takeshi to hear it. “Right, I’m out, too. Play with your box toys. Get your shit together before I get back tomorrow, and you had _better_ get your shit together before Reborn sees you again. Motherfucker’ll shoot us all.”

Takeshi laughs. No way would Reborn shoot them. He wouldn’t shoot anybody he could use instead. That’s easy enough to understand, isn’t it? It was almost the first thing Takeshi noticed about Reborn.

Maybe Squalo’s joking.

Once everyone’s gone, Takeshi lets his box weapons out. He didn’t actually need to be told; he lets them out every day. He’s getting them used to the idea that he won’t be able to run with them anymore.

They were pretty confused at first, but they seem to be okay now. Jirou keeps trying to bite the wheels of the chair, but other than that. Maybe Takeshi can talk Jirou into pulling him around—that’d free up both arms, right? Kojirou can scout, Jirou can drive, Takeshi can fight. They can have a whole system.

It’s crazy, but it seems like this is going to work out after all. Maybe he’ll live through the fight with Kaoru and everything. And play baseball in a wheelchair afterward.

Haha. Right.

* * *

Takeshi thinks that what his family does for him is provide balance. Tsuna, Gokudera, Ryouhei, Haru, Kyoko, Lambo, even Hibari. They push out the edges of his world, remind him not to let his horizons close in and become a cage. They pull him past his obsessions. Balance.

Balance is not what he needs right now. It’s funny. What he turns into when his family is gone is exactly what he needs to be to get them back.

“Son?” his dad calls out cautiously.

Takeshi pauses halfway up the rope he had Squalo tie for him. It hangs from the window of his second-floor bedroom to the ground.

“Son, can I ask what you’re doing?”

Dad’s picked an awkward time to have this talk, because Takeshi isn’t sure how long he can hang in one place. Turns out to be way harder to climb a rope when you can’t use your legs. He refuses to come back down (the point was to go _up_ ), but if he stays still too long, he may not be able to climb anymore.

If he falls from this height, his body’s done for for sure.

“Dad,” he gasps. “Talk in my room?”

He goes back to climbing without waiting for an answer.

He makes it almost all the way, but has kind of a problem at the top. Squalo didn’t tack the rope over the window, see—he tied it to something in the room. Meaning it ends at the window sill, which leaves Takeshi with the puzzle of how get over the sill. If his legs worked, he’d swing one up and pull himself in that way. But his legs don’t work. Hence this entire exercise.

He’s still pondering this when Dad’s head appears above him. “And how do you think you’re gonna get yourself in here?” he asks.

Takeshi grins up at him, tries to get enough breath to talk. “Haha, I guess I didn’t think that far?”

Dad rolls his eyes and reaches down to hoist Takeshi into the room. This doesn’t go as smoothly as it might have. It’s a weird angle, Takeshi isn’t exactly a lightweight, and anyway, Dad isn’t as young as he used to be. They both end up sprawled on the floor of Takeshi’s room, gasping. But hey, nobody pitched down to the ground below. They’re not doing too bad.

“I climbed up a rope to get here,” Takeshi wheezes. “What’s your excuse?”

“I’m not a damn teenager,” Dad gasps indignantly back. “Besides, you weigh a lot more than I remember. Are you eating lead on the sly?”

“Not unless it’s in your tuna. With the mercury.”

“ _Take that back_.”

Takeshi laughs, and a companionable silence holds for a while as their heart rates slow and their breathing goes back to normal. Like two old men, Takeshi thinks, who’ve had a scare.

“So,” Dad says eventually. “Climbing ropes. I don’t remember hearing about that from your P.T. lady.”

“Ah, no. I guess I’m doing extra?”

“Hmm.” Dad sits up and has a look around the room. Pretty bare these days, with all the baseball stuff shoved under the bed and into the closet. Getting dusty, too, because there’s a lot that’s hard to reach from down low. But the gleaming arsenal of throwing knives laid out on leather on the desk—a gift from Squalo—that’s spotlessly clean.

“I haven’t seen any of your friends around for a while,” Dad says thoughtfully. “Except for that white-haired guy.”

Takeshi stares fixedly at the ceiling. “I guess not.”

Silence for one slowed-down heartbeat. Two. Three—

“I’ll hook that rope to something over the window, so you can climb in without breaking your old dad’s back, how about that?”

Takeshi turns, surprised. “That’ll look terrible.” His room faces the front of the building—the front of the shop.

“Yeah, well. Once I see your friends around again, I’ll take it down and you’ll have to figure something else out. Deal?”

His dad, Takeshi thinks with a certain quiet awe, is maybe the most amazing guy on earth. “Deal,” he says.

Dad smiles at him, almost like he’s proud. “Want me to bring your chair up?”

“Nah. I’d just have to get it down again. I’ll take the rope.”

Dad looks at the window sill, just as much of a problem from this side as it was from the other. “How are you planning on doing that, son?”

Takeshi grins and raises his arms to be picked up—something he last did when he was about five years old.

He was much lighter when he was five years old. Dad groans.

* * *

“This isn’t a race, Yamamoto-kun,” his physical therapist says, pencil tapping unhappily against his chart. “If you don’t cut back on all this extra training you’re obviously doing, you could seriously hurt yourself.” Tap tap. “Again.”

“Haha.” Takeshi scratches the back of his neck and tries for a winning smile. “Wouldn’t want that.”

She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. The pencil taps harder. Rageful pencil tapping. It sort of cheers Takeshi up. He’d thought Gokudera was the only one who did things like that.

“You’re going to keep doing all this extra stuff no matter what I tell you, aren’t you?” she demands.

“Um, no?”

“Don’t lie to me, Yamamoto Takeshi. If you work with me, we’ll get something done. If you work against me, you’ll wind up a shattered blob in the gutter, and it won’t be my fault.”

Shattered blob in the gutter, huh? Seriously, this lady’s reminding him of Gokudera more all the time. Maybe that’s why he shrugs and goes with it.

“Say I need to be able to pitch an entire game of baseball. But I also need to be able to run bases.”

She scowls. “Real baseball or metaphorical baseball?”

He bites his lip against a grin. “Well, metaphorical baseball? But it’s a pretty close, uh, metaphor. I guess.”

“Mm hmm.” Tap tap tap. “And when is this metaphorical baseball game taking place?”

“As soon as possible. Weeks if I can. Months if I have to. As few months as possible.”

“How important is your non-baseball game, Yamamoto-kun?”

He looks down, twists his hands together in his lap, forces his smile to hold. “My life depends on it.”

She sighs and shakes her head, flips through his chart. “Well,” she says, “I hope you know you’re going to hate yourself when you’re fifty. Tell me what you’ve been doing on your own so I can tell you how stupid it was.”

* * *

It’s not that Takeshi has anything against Spanner. Actually, it’s nice to see him. It’s just, Spanner is tinkering with Takeshi’s wheelchair, and Takeshi is a little afraid of what the chair’s going to be, exactly, by the time Spanner’s done with it.

On top of that, it is beyond weird for Spanner to be so young.

“This kid,” Dad says dubiously. “You _know_ this kid?”

“Mm.” Takeshi’s committing to nothing.

“What is it he’s doing, again?”

If only Takeshi knew. “Improving my chair?”

Spanner’s mumbling something around the sucker in his mouth as he works. A song, too quiet to make out the words. He’s also fitting something that looks an awful lot like an automatic weapon to the underside of the chair. Takeshi wonders how Spanner thinks he’s going to fire that thing without blowing his own legs off.

Spanner’s first idea was to stick him in a giant robot, of course. Takeshi resisted. He thinks Spanner is probably still sulking about it. Maybe he plans to blow Takeshi’s legs off in retaliation.

“Hey kid,” Dad shouts over the mumbling and the clanking.

Spanner looks up, blinking like an owl in a spotlight, and pulls his sucker out of his mouth. “Um, yeah?”

“What’re you singing?”

Spanner blinks a few more times. “…Maxwell’s equations?”

He takes the stunned silence that greets this announcement as permission to return to work, and so he does. Happily singing Maxwell’s equations to himself over and over, apparently. Takeshi and his dad turn to stare at each other.

“I’m going back to the kitchen,” Dad says.

“Please take me with you,” Takeshi asks.

Dad does, and without a whisper of complaint about how heavy he is. Just a murmured, “We really need to get you another wheelchair.”

* * *

Takeshi thinks he’s probably been throwing knives for a solid hour; it’s not surprising that his aim is going to hell. Same thing used to happen in the batting cages. So he starts playing around, trying tricks, just for variety. To give his arm a break.

Squalo responds by punching Takeshi in the face. Apparently he doesn’t approve of playing around. No surprises there. “Stop treating this like a fucking game,” he snarls.

Takeshi sets his knife down and runs his tongue across his lower lip, which is once again split. He tries to figure out how to respond to that. Nothing in his life has ever been more or less than a game. Horribly high stakes don’t change that. Nothing does.

Under less strained circumstances, he’d probably keep that thought to himself, but, “It is a game,” he says. He’s too tired to bother with not saying things right now.

Squalo just rolls his eyes. You can get away with saying pretty much anything to Squalo anyway. “You’re the creepiest asshole I know,” he announces, which seems a little harsh. He does know Mukuro, after all. “Do it again. And do it fucking _right_ this time. Play to win if you’re playing, you weird brat.”

Takeshi grins. It kind of hurts.

* * *

He’s a few days into training with Reborn when Kyoko comes for a visit. An odd visit. She’s never had much to say to Takeshi before, and seemingly doesn’t have much to say to him now. She sits quietly in his neglected desk chair, eyes trailing from the dusty sword and bat propped in the corner to the weights on the floor to him. She gives his body a long, clinical once-over. It’s a little scary.

“You’re looking well, Yamamoto-kun,” she says.

“Um,” he says, “thanks?”

“Haru-chan and I have been worried.” She frowns at him. He doesn’t know what to say. Isn’t Bianchi supposed to be keeping her and Haru up to date on everything? It’s not his job to keep the girls calm, it’s his job to keep Gokudera and Tsuna calm. This was _never_ his job, it was Tsuna’s and Bianchi’s and—

And things aren’t the same. He should know that by now.

“I’m trusting you to bring my brother and Tsuna-kun and everyone back,” Kyoko tells him. She doesn’t look like she needs calming, actually. He doesn’t know what it is she wants from him.

“I’ll…do my best?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “You always do. All of you. That’s what makes you so much trouble.” She stands up and brushes her skirt free of wrinkles. In the soft, afternoon light, she looks like something from a 1950s photograph; not quite real. This whole visit seems not quite real. Takeshi still isn’t sure why she came. “If you don’t bring them back,” she says, “Haru-chan and I will.”

Takeshi nods; he finally understands. And he’s grateful. “Bianchi will help you.”

She reaches out and briefly, affectionately ruffles his hair. “I know. Be careful, Yamamoto-kun.”

She came to calm _him_ down. She came to tell him that it’s not all over if he messes up. Tsuna’s undying crush makes a lot more sense, all of a sudden.

“Pretty girls visiting you in your room,” his father says once Kyoko’s gone, shaking his head. “Tell your old dad to get lost if you need to. Don’t be shy.”

Takeshi laughs. “Don’t get your hopes up, Dad,” he says. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Why? She somebody’s sister?” His dad’s grinning for the first time in…what, weeks? For that alone, Takeshi owes Kyoko big time.

“Yeah,” Takeshi admits. “But that’s the least of it.”

“Son, listen to your dad. Marrying a dangerous woman is a good thing. Just be careful never to piss her off too much.”

Takeshi smiles, remembering his mother and the scary way she used to throw sushi knives around. He’s careful to cut the memory off before it can start to hurt.

Then he thinks of green eyes and cigarette smoke and the smell of C-4, and he laughs. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll remember.”

* * *

By the time Takeshi is ready for his fight with Kaoru, he’s been without his family for six months.

The doctors say his recovery has been miraculous. They’re wrong. It’s been much too slow. Six months is way too long to spend in prison—and way too long for Takeshi to be without his family. He wonders if they’ll even recognize each other.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.

If this goes well, Tsuna will smile that calm, sure smile he gets sometimes, and he’ll say, _We knew you’d win_. Gokudera will scowl and cross his arms and say, _Baseball freak, what took you so long? You’d better have brought me cigarettes_. Everyone will be safe. Nothing important will change.

Takeshi buys a pack of Gokudera’s favorite cigarettes, just in case. He tucks them in his pocket, close like a promise. If this goes well.

If it doesn’t go well, he’ll die. A fight for his pride, Squalo says, whatever that means. Takeshi guesses it has something to do with the way he hates to lose.

But pride or no pride, Kaoru’s going to have to kill him to beat him, Takeshi will make sure of it. He has no interest in surviving another loss. Especially not this loss.

His pride and his life are the same thing, that’s his problem. If he loses one, he loses the other. It lends a certain clarity to things, at least.

“Right, wheels,” Squalo says, flicking his hair impatiently over his shoulder. “If you draw, I’ll kill you myself.”

“Haha! Okay. No draws.”

“You ready for this? You’re probably gonna get wiped out and look like a moron in the process. Cool with that?”

Takeshi smiles up at him, feeling calm in a way he hasn’t since he first woke up in the hospital. If he wins, he’ll have his family back. If he loses, Kyoko and Haru will get them back instead. So, actually, he can’t lose.

“I hate to lose,” he tells Squalo.

Squalo laughs. “Yeah, I noticed. Let’s move.”


End file.
